Page 97 of A Scot in the Storm
“The sage-to-thyme ratio has apparently been wrong since Sam was twelve,” Abigail continued. “Now he brings it up every year like he’s presenting evidence before Congress.”
“What’s Congress?” Tobias asked from the doorway.
“A governing body.”
Ewan looked interested. “And they concern themselves with herbs.”
“Honestly? Probably less than they should.”
Duncan frowned thoughtfully.
“So this holiday is centered around oversized birds, arguments, and disappointment.”
“That’s football,” Abigail said automatically. Then had to explain football again.
Rory frowned. “We’ve circled back to football.”
“It’s a sport.”
“With violence,” Duncan recalled.
“And disappointment.”
“That sounds Scottish,” Ewan observed.
Mrs. Gable wiped flour from her hands and straightened suddenly.
“Well,” she announced, “we canna have a feast day passing unmarked. Not in this house. Not while I’ve breath left in me.”
Abigail blinked.
“Mrs. Gable, you really don’t have to?—”
“Out.”
“What?”
“Out of my kitchen. Sit by the hearth or go for a walk.”
Then she pointed directly at Rory.
“You. Henhouse. Three hens.”
Rory stood automatically.
“Tobias, we need smoked herrings in case the hens go stringy.”
“Yes, Mrs. Gable.”
“And tell Ewan to fetch a cask of the second-best whisky from the lodgings cellar.”
Rory paused near the door.
“Second-best?”
“Aye. And dinna touch the Banff.”
Something close to reverence crossed Ewan’s face.
